


You Came Back (Never Meant to Stay)

by BannedBloodOranges



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Character Study, Closeted Character, Despair Event Horizon, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, New Reno, One Night Stands, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, References to Fallout 2, References to Male Courier/Vulpes Inculta, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 22:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30079443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/BannedBloodOranges
Summary: The Courier takes a stop at the Mojave Outpost.He could be straight. Mad, if that is the first thing she thinks of, but business is slow, and she's that desperate, beaten so low she can taste the sweat in her boots. Could be straight, if not for that swagger. It's manly alright, but with the kind of knowing strut that makes lesser men plug up their assholes."Come here often, beautiful?"
Relationships: Major Knight/Original Male Character, Male Courier/Major Knight, Rose of Sharon Cassidy & Male Courier, Rose of Sharon Cassidy/Original Male Character
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628497
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	You Came Back (Never Meant to Stay)

**Author's Note:**

> Non-profit fun only.
> 
> Arthur McManus belongs to Rabenherz. 
> 
> The "original male character" is Donny, my courier (now given a slightly different role as I am now unable to write any courier that isn't Rabenherz's.)

Arthur had passed the Mojave Post as he'd disembarked the Long 15 into Vegas. He'd not bothered, that lifetime ago, to enter the supply post and trade caps for repair and ammo. The NCR were greys and greens and bad haircuts, dour men and women desperate for a fight or fuck, and Arthur was used to passing them by, nothing but set dressing for the working courier. 

In New Reno, there had been no NCR. The gangs kept the streets clean, pocketed the cash and kept the residents poor, but there had been at least ordering, a way of things, a life.

He had taken breath beneath the dual monument of Ranger and NCR reared up into the pristine, baking blue of the Mojave Sky, on his first passing onto the Long 15. Sunlight had shone off the scrap metal beaten into the base propaganda of the harmonious figures, shaking hands over the chain link that opened the legs of the desert to New Vegas below. 

It had been a sight then, and as Ed-E zipped ahead, Arthur took a moment to appraise it in the drowsy humidity of the evening.

It was an impressive structure, to be sure, a huge mesh and wire build of recycled metal and at least one of the newest developments of Mojave culture if you subscribed to tourism. But Arthur was a courier, well versed in the NCR's love of symbolism, of statuettes, of the grudge of bureaucracy. He'd trailed too much soil in their lands to be so naive as to be fooled by performative solidarity.

He trails his gaze up the metal legs, spies the hollow inside where a nest of fire geckos have crawled up, poisonous orange bodies piled on each other as they sleep. 

An NCR patrol guard makes his rounds, careful to avoid Ed-E's cautious beeps. He greets Arthur under his breath, the slow, tired grunt of the sun drunk. On his back is an enormous flamer, rusted from overuse.

"Easy, civilian." He holsters it off his back, dunking it to the concrete with the weight. "Please make your way to the main office if you have questions, or to the bar, if you need supplies or sleeping arrangements."

"Sure thing," Arthur answers smoothly, tickling Ed-E under his antennas. "I'll move right on up."

He does but not too fast as to escape his curiosity, and he hears the hot roar of the flamer licking up the iron Ranger's legs and the piercing shrieks of the geckos as the stink of scalded flesh bakes the air.

* * *

The putrid funk of flesh comes creeping through the broken windows and Cass gags into her bottle. Major Knight must be on gecko duty again.

That smell has followed her from the sight of her lost caravan and scorched away her sense of taste for good measure, leaving nought else to do here but drink. 

The tear blue bottle of her whiskey bottle has become her hue of choice, not just for the unchanging sight but the colour. Blue, even if she has ridden so many solider boys she could start charging. No need for whores in Vegas, just ask Cass at the bar. A sad end to her tale by her Ma's reckoning. Daughter of a legend, the independent businesswoman turned whore, turned blue.

Her money is running out, but so is the whiskey. If the Legion boys keep jumping the traders, she'll lose that pleasure too.

Major Knight has entered, gecko gunk dripping off his uniform. The other soldiers hustle him, laughter low and dark, and Cass has enough of an ear to pick up the irritation souring up the jokes. Major Knight has got that bland niceness people seem to resent and it riles her too, sometimes, even if she's told the bigger boys to leave him alone more than once. He's also a queer, a real one, and rumour has it he's having it off with a Legion puppy at midnight on the northern trail, which is bullshit cos Major Knight is in bed at ten with a book and a hot chocolate but he's _different,_ and everyone is so bored and hot and hungry all the fucking time, that difference means _other_ means up to something, and the poor bastard sucks it all in without a word.

She could be stinkin' drunk and maybe the whiskey has poisoned her peepers as well as her liver, but there is a dancing eyebot bopping around to _Heartache by The Number._

The world might be blue, but it ain't blue enough yet for her to be deaf to the creak of the neighbouring barstool, and low and behold, it's a man with a dealer's grin and hair all cherry gold, like hers.

"Looking for trouble?"

 _Bad manners, girl._ She can hear her Dad all up in her head. _C'mon, you can do better than that. Put down the bottle, speak up for yourself, make contacts._

"Maybe just looking around." He could be straight. Mad, if that is the first thing she thinks of, but business is slow, and she's that desperate, beaten so low she can taste the sweat in her boots. Could be straight, if not for that swagger. It's manly alright, but with the kind of knowing strut that makes lesser men plug up their assholes. "You come here often, beautiful?"

"Only all the damn time." She sticks her finger on the counter, like a dagger on a salt rock. Just as useless, but worth the gesture. "And keep your eyes up if you don't want them spinning."

She expects him to go away. But he swings his legs around on the barstool, props his elbows on the counter and gives her a look.

"Call me crazy, Mrs," He says, almost gentle. "But I think you've got a story in you."

"Why the fuck you want to hear it?"

"Curiosity," He says, but as he means it. A gaggle of men waft by and his gaze lazily follows, and she smirks into her bottle. Called it. "And I've just seen something disturbing, even for my walking boots, and I think a burden shared is a burden halved, right?"

"Caravan." Her headache swells behind her eyes, taking root in her temples. "Brahmin, supplies, all vapourised."

"Doesn't sound like raiders." A fresh bottle is placed in her empty hands. She lets the cool of the glass pulse against her sweated palms, and as the room swims, he comes into view. 

Jesus Christ, he is no looker, but even if he swung that way, she still thinks she would, if only for the naughty gleam in his bottle green eye. 

"No." She breaks the bottle seal with her teeth. "Not raiders. Maybe Legion, even if those dick strokers don't carry energy weapons."

"Enclave?" He offers, and then, he adds; "I'm Arthur, by the way."

"Didn't ask your name."

"Well, you looked like ya wanted it." 

She scoffs, clacking her teeth on the bottleneck. He smirks, and inches in closer.

"Cass." She doesn't bother to pour it. The good stuff is better right from the neck. "Rose of Sharon Cassidy, if you want the full thing. Not many people around who care, though."

"Well, Cass." He steals a drink for himself. "I've got the feeling this is the start of a beautiful..."

She almost feels hopeful.

"...friendship."

Fucker.

* * *

Nipton sets the Outpost on fire. Men who had been sleepwalking their shifts sling the nasty story back and forth, an ecstasy that that something was actually fucking happening and horror at how and _why_ it had happened in the first damn place.

Arthur had allowed the crowd to swell around him and Cass before he dropped the bombshell. He could have told the commanding officer at the gate, but it wouldn't have been so fun to see his face drop to his knees.

"Well," Cass's blazing hair is static with heat. "That's fucking depressing."

The sleepy quiet is wrecked. Men bustle back and forth, the scratch of radio a tinny chorus around the base. A small team have been discharged to check for any survivors.

Must have sucked, Arthur thinks. Those convicts, strung high on their crosses, seeing the monument peaked on the horizon and begging for the NCR's soft justice.

"No point in looking," Arthur yawns. "They're all dead. Just bones and blood splatter."

"Nothing left, huh?" Cass is too pretty for rampant alcoholism. She swings back on her chair, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. "Did you speak to one of them? Get his number?"

Vulpes's sterile beauty creeps to mind. Arthur shrugs. He hasn't mentioned him. Kept that man tight to his chest, like a prayer. Doesn't quite understand why, but Vulpes is one delight he's yet to drop to his new best friend.

"They're strong, the Legion lot," Arthur lets his voice travel. A few men shift away from the bar, discomfited. The Gecko killer sits alone in his booth, holding tight to his beer. "Faces are a little inbred, but good bodies. Hairless too, weird enough. Would fuck on occasion, but not get started on any kind of politics. Not good for the long term."

"Didn't have you down for any kind of term. Short or long."

"I'm plenty long," He swings his arms wide, tucks them under his head. "Just not in any kind of term."

The Gecko killer meets Arthur's eye. He jerks his head away, mortified. 

Huh.

"Hey, Cass," He says, quietly. "Who's our shrinking violet?"

"Hm?" She looks over, helping herself to a mound of salted pinyon nuts. "That's Major Knight. He's nice enough, but a bit of a square. Only one of your type around."

"My type?"

"Yeah." She crunches loudly, spitting out crumbs. "Queer."

"I'll have you know, I've had all types. Even types that didn't know they were my type until I taught them otherwise."

"Right." She snickers, licking her fingers clean. A young trooper watches her, transfixed. "I'm gonna hold you to that, one day. The kind of thing I'd like to see in action."

"Yeah." He likes Cass. Ed-E beeps, aggressively bumping his hand. He pats his bot, thoughtful. "Maybe you will, baby. But first..." 

* * *

Easy to see what kind of man Major Knight is, all squared away by himself like that. Even easier to buy him a drink, to scooch into the booth and see him blush under all that grey-green drab.

"Hello." He plants a bottle of beer between them, as a way of introduction. "You're the guy who takes care of the geckos, right? Brutal to witness but accomplished. I was impressed. Very impressed."

It's the kind of dandy ease he'd picked up from the girls at New Reno. Swoop in like you own the joint, like you've had this conversation a million times over. 

_Treat every man like he is a winner,_ Munchin' Margo had said. _Make him feel like a million caps, even if he's worth about two._

Major Knight visibly swallows.

"I..." He clears his throat, military-style. "I'm glad you think so highly of pest control. It's a drudge, but somebody has to do it."

"And you do it so well," Arthur replies, sinking into the opposite chair. "I don't think I got your name, I was so blown away."

"My name?" He was maybe baby faced as a recruit, but war-worn years have sunk his features into the eternally tired. He's the wrong side of forty, that's for certain. "It's Knight. Major Knight."

Arthur licks his lips, sweetened with whiskey. It has been a long walk, and a familiar ache is settling in his belly. Major or not, he'll do.

"First name, honey."

He baulks.

"I don't think it is wise to enter a first name basis," He says, a little louder. Men turn their backs so they can outright stare with some discretion. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow. The ache in his stomach shimmers; becomes something else entirely.

"Well, well..." He clucks his tongue, bites the back of his thumb. But he keeps his eyes, hungry bright, on the sweat visible in the dip of Knight's collar. "I was just trying to be friendly."

"I..." Knight swallows, deep as if trying to gulp down the silence. "I am not available for friendships at the moment, is what I meant."

Cass's clumsy voice burbles out into the quiet, draws the earwigging men like bears to honey. She's propped on the bar, singing a drinking song so filthy it would make a Reno whore genuflect. 

"Why is that?" Arthur leans in closer, pleasantly spreading his lips into a smile. "I didn't know the NCR were so spineless."

Knight bristles, leaning close as if to affirm his point, before he stiffens, his dark eyes opening large in his head.

Arthur's hands have settled on his thighs, opening his legs like the path to the Long 15.

Knight doesn't shift, but Arthur can feel the muscles trembling under his palm, the stirring of skin as he slips his fingers along the thick, cotton seam of Knight's trouser.

* * *

A slick desert wind picks up along the Long 15, crying the chainlink fence. The glow of drink and laughter oozes through the windows, slicing yellow up Knight's bare, trembling belly.

They are huddled along the thin dirt track that circles the back of the barracks. They could go inside into Knight's private quarters, of course, they could, but if this is a dirty secret, Arthur will treat it as such. 

"Easy," Arthur soothes. He was pleasantly surprised to find a body beneath all that camo, shoulders and stomach firm and broad, lightly finned in dark hair. Major Knight's eyes are squeezed shut, his fingernails curling up Mojave dust beneath the black sky. On his back behind the bar, like a Reno whore. Pride gone, cock out. "Relax, Major."

Knight flinches at the title. Arthur snickers and spits on his hand, as Knight tries to push himself to see, anticipatory and appalled.

"This..." He strangles out a whisper. "This isn't Vegas."

"Don't worry," Arthur slides his hand up the Major's length. He's stout, like the rest of him. "When I'm done, it could be."

He takes him, roughly, into his mouth. Knight gags back a shout, one leg jerking as if to kick but Arthur swipes both arms beneath Knight's knees and drags him closer, swallowing him down to the hilt.

Any protest fades to a keening whine, smacked up by the gathering storm. Arthur's tongue trails a burning stream from the tip to the base and back again, slipping his fingers further below and Knight breaks.

"Not here." He shakes his head, breathless. Poor baby must have been scratching to get his brain back. "Please. Not here. Inside."

"Oh?" Arthur smirks. "A bit formal, hm? What if we're seen?"

"I..." Sand colours the scuff of his hair from his thrashing. "I don't care. If, we are discreet, then..."

"Your name."

He swallows. 

"W-what?"

"Your name, Major." Arthur folds his hands into his pockets, rising up to his full height. "If we're going to do this, well, I must insist on a little romance."

The laughter creeps higher through the greasily lit window. Cass is no longer there. In the gap between the gangways, Arthur had seen her enter the barracks with two younger men. The Major staggers to his feet with little dignity, fighting his trousers. Arthur coughs behind his hand.

"Leo." Knight grabs his shirt, pulling him so near that their lips are barely a breath apart. Arthur smiles a little wider and takes a step back. Knight follows. "My name is Leo."

"Alright," Arthur's lips brush his cheek in a tease. Leo chases the kiss and is forced to chase further as Arthur paces toward the backdoor. "Come on, love. Leo."

* * *

By the time they reach the bed, Leo is stripped and Arthur is not. The mattress springs with their weight and Arthur flips him on his front, peppering kisses down his back until he reaches his buttocks and parts them, pushing his tongue inside the opening and making the dear Major cry out like a baby.

It's a wonderful sound, and a better sight, to see the puppet strings loosen and the poor lamb thrash around in the sheets, completely gone as Arthur tongues him brainless, but he removes his hands and mouth as precum pearls the tip of Leo's cock.

The great shoulders roll and Arthur realises he's crying, the sheets hedged up between his teeth and the poor dear, how long has it been? Closeted in a dead-end post with nothing but the dredge of paper and passers-by. Arthur retreats, gentle, and kisses Knight's tremoring back. He's prepared as anything by the looks of the poor guy, but Arthur reaches for his emergency ration in his jeans none the less, as he can imagine in this backwater it’s been well, possibly a while. 

Over the bed an NCR flag keeps vigil.

Ah, well.

Skin slaps on skin and Knight's head shoves up against the bed frame with an incriminating creak. Even though the coital haze his face slacks from shock and Arthur chuckles, spanking his thigh as if the Major is a prize brahmin for the breeding.

"Well, Major," He quips, light. "I say we give them a show."

"Pl -"

Arthur ruts him, shredding the plea into an unrestrained moan. He's loud. They're loud. And Arthur plans to be louder still.

He fucks him mercilessly, the bed frame bouncing off the wall and the air deafened as Major Knight's screams climb to meet the thunder outside.

* * *

Early morning. The storm has come and gone and so the freshened air weeps in through the half-opened windows. Arthur soaks his face in the sink, itching the red gold hair growing coarse on his chin and cheeks.

Major Leo Knight is asleep, tugged uptight in the blankets. The lines have escaped his face sometime in the night, but it'll certainly be a healthy guess he'll have no throat to bark commands.

The squat, grey room that enclosed Knight's world had passed Arthur by the night before. He'd been too focused to consider too closely. Anyway, he'd always preferred to fuck with the world open all around him or even in the whoring motels with dirty bedding and radroaches in the bathroom. At least it was human, unashamed.

Arthur yawns, helping himself to toothpaste and brush, and is quick to pocket the platinum razor after he's done shaking off the foam into the sink. 

Arthur dabs his face clean with a cloth and sleepily frees a folded picture he'd spotted slotted in the mirror's corner. Unfolding it, he eases out the crinkles and is greeted by a dainty young man, barely eighteen by the looks of it, smiling open and proud with his arms around a baby bighorner. Quite a looker, even if he isn't Arthur's type. He turns it over, reads the tidy lettering on the back.

_Thinking of you._

_We'll be together in Vegas soon._

_Love D._ _Xxx_

The picture is dogeared, visibly finger smoothed. Arthur gives the room a cursory glance. The open cupboard is only half full, with dust outlining the ghosts of books, clothes, boots. Above the bed, the two-headed bear looms.

Arthur takes the platinum razor and leaves the picture on the pillow.

* * *

The Mojave sunlight burns octane bright through the boarded windows.

Cass's hair clouds her chalky face in fucked frizz, her cigarette trembling as she brings it to her lips. Empty bottles form a graveyard at her feet. 

Arthur leans against the door frame, arms crossed. Ed-E hovers beside him like a secondary orbital planet. The bar carries the exhausted silence of a bygone party.

"Hey," He calls, mild. She looks up, with her stubbornly dry eyes. "You fancy a walk, beautiful?"

A shadow passes her face, sinking into the hollows of her cheeks, before she cackles, sliding off her barstool with a shrug.

"Why not?" She slings her bag over her shoulder. "Why the fuck not?"

Into the sun, he walks.

She follows.


End file.
